Strength
by themanonthemoon
Summary: Faramir was different. Perhaps it was his difference that saved his life.


**DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Lord Of The Rings. It is the property of J.R.R Tolkien. The most brilliant man to walk Middle-Earth.**

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"There was a city carved in stone. Its pillars hoisted the side of a great mountain. The mountain was white for its people were said to be resilient and pure. They were supposed to be brave and true. Like the white tree that stood at the courtyard before the great halls in which the Steward of Gondor resides. The white tree that was bare for it had nothing shameful to hide. It was a soldier to its very core. So why aren't you?"

The boy bowed his head unable to meet his father's eyes. His true thoughts and feelings gathered at the base of his throat ready to be voiced. His head was pounding. He couldn't bare to disappoint his father once again. _I didn't mean to fall down. I didn't mean to cry. I'm not as strong as he is. _

And then the blow came.

"Why can't you be like Boromir?"

The words he had wished not say died in his throat. And it was sickening - the feel of swallowing the truth. It was as if all of his blood had been drained from his body and sent to his head. He felt heavy with so many things he had wanted to say. He was filled with fear. And it made him weak.

"Father," Was it enough to apologize? But for what? Instead, he said, "Father, I'll try again."

The Steward of Gondor was not satisfied. He had wanted warriors. Proud, regal heirs to reign in his place when his time was up. Unfortunately, most of those qualities were inherited by Boromir and his youngest child Faramir was simply a wasted suit of flesh. He needed to grow into his brothers shoes. _Otherwise, ... otherwise..._

The older man sighed - rubbing a grey hand over an equally tired, grey face. "Tomorrow," he set an ultimatum. "Tomorrow, you will be different."

And with those last words, he gestured his son to leave. With closed eyes, he rested his face against his arm, listening to the boy's retreating footsteps and the deep, terrifying sound of the large doors closing.

The boy left his father's hall not knowing what to feel. His father's sincerity was lost to his ears as it always was. His mind was preoccupied, mulling over what his father had told him. They never had a proper conversation. And the little words that they shared were all but gentle and caring. His father always seemed detached towards him. In fact, even with Boromir, they spoke of hobbies and topics that they both enjoyed - like war, weapons, horses and rising powers in other lands. In private, they spoke of serious matters like the dark forces that crept in the West, a Strider that could overthrow them, and the One Ring. Those topics, the boy noticed, were said in whispered voices, shifty glances and sweaty palms. They were uncomfortable topics that involved power and greed. It was_ their_ weakness.

The boy preferred the quiet corners rather than the splendor of light his elder brother constantly basked in. The boy wanted to know how fathers were meant to be and what they really said when they spoke to their sons. Surely, it couldn't be about stature and politics and...war? The boy dreamt of love and warmth - the feeling of a family standing together.

Sometimes he would dream of horses and men in silver armor. He wanted to be one of those men. And even though he didn't want to admit it, he did want to be like his brother. But he didn't want Father to keep reminding him so.

He didn't want Father to look at him with a scowl and say "You will be different." He already was different. Different in his own way - in a way Boromir can never be. Why can't Father appreciate that? The boy didn't want to be the second best and the second favorite because in a family everyone is loved and cherished equally.

The boy loved his father. He didn't know whether his father loved him back.

The boy did not like to be alone for it was too quiet and the silence would be filled by the swirling thoughts on his father's words. He sought company with his brother who made him smile despite the oozing jealousy that pooled from the pit of his stomach. Boromir was in the stables, feeding his horse. He was diligent and responsible, as a soldier should be. The boy crept in, hidden in the shadow that his brother cast. It felt dark and his confidence dampened even though Boromir was only a few inches taller than he was. He needn't say a word for his brother knew him better than anyone else. "Don't fear, brother. Father is simply looking out for your future - for our future. And once he is gone, you shan't worry. For we are the Brothers of Gondor," Boromir smiled and gripped his brother's hand. "Don't fear. I will always protect you. No matter what Father says, I will always be there."

The boy tried to build the walls. The walls that kept his emotions in check. The impenetrable walls that guarded his City and the eyes of his brother. He tried to be strong, pulling all the courage he could muster for he knew, he had very little of it. Yet even then, a lone tear managed to leak out.

"Thank you, brother. Your words of kindness always soothe the pain." There was huge jolt and the boy was shaken out his wallowing state.

"Don't sit there and waste away in your seat," Boromir was very much like his father - words and all. "And if you must, sit straight and think productively. You have a strength of a different kind, dear brother."

But Boromir was different - unlike his father in his own way. The boy loved his brother and that was why he knew his brother loved him back.

"I will still train for the battlefield," said the boy - his confidence now being shared rather than undermined. Boromir looked upon his horse, then packing the horn his father gave him - unknowing to the dark future that lay ahead of him. That the horn would be found halved by his brother. Next to his floating corpse.

His weakness would be the death of him.

But for now, in times that were less troubling, Boromir simply said, "Indeed you will, and a fine warrior you will make."

The boy grinned and skipped out of the stables. He was greeted by the smell of fresh air and the blue sky that constantly watched over him. The sun was already retreating to the West. The clouds welcoming its harsh, tired rays like soft arms into a purple haven.

The boy with the golden mane looked upon his city's banners. Some of them bore horses and trees. Symbols that represented the hearts of its men - strength and strive. The boy felt the dirt and grime that was caked in his hair - brown rust that tinted the golden head that also belonged to his brother. The young warrior stared at the black and white cloths that were draped on his city's pillars, in his father's halls and on the horse of his mighty older brother while his mind wandered beyond the white walls of his beloved city.

He thought of the banner he would be waving and in his imagination, it bore a symbol that resembled himself. In the middle of the black sheet was a white lion. It was small and it was smiling. He thought of the orcs that he would be battling - the way they would roar with laughter at the sight of the pathetic symbol.

It was a ridiculous fantasy but he felt that he would have laughed along. And while their mouths were open and their black heads thrown back, he would draw his sword and slice off their heads. He almost reminded himself of his brother, as the taste of battle lust invaded his senses.

No.

His brother was the lion.

He was its heart.


End file.
